


The Penitent

by malevolent_muse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Destiel - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Law Enforcement, M/M, Priest Castiel, Priest Kink, Religious Guilt, Sheriff Dean, Spanking, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22348441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolent_muse/pseuds/malevolent_muse
Summary: Sheriff Dean Winchester has a lot weighing on his mind. Consequently, he seeks counsel from the local priest, Father Novak.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 36
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dudewheresmytea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudewheresmytea/gifts).



> An alternate universe fic where Dean is the sheriff and Castiel the local priest... if that wasn’t clear from the summary.

Leaning in the doorway of his older brother’s office, Sam Winchester said, “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Dean replied, getting up from behind his desk and walking over to usher his brother in and close the door behind them. The hinges creaked and the glass rattled as he did so and he gave the peeling paint across the pane a sideways glance. Making a mental note to have the wording of ‘sheriff’ retouched, Sheriff Winchester motioned his ‘little’ brother to have a seat.

Fatigued more by stress than anything else, Dean returned to his cushioned leather chair behind the table. Sitting down on the worn padding, he couldn’t help but reflect on the chair’s previous owner, their father.

“Dean?” Sam inquired. “You with me or is your mind somewhere else?”

“Oh, sorry. Just reminiscing about Dad a bit.”

“I don’t know why you bother,” the younger Winchester remarked, a hit of bitterness in his tone. “Dad’s been gone for years now and it’s been for the best. He was so hard on us Dean. Treated us more like soldiers than sons.”

“Eh, well, it’s not like the men of his generation knew much about child-rearing. Besides, we turned out okay. And it’s not like it stopped you from following in his footsteps, deputy.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“You didn’t bring me into your office to talk about dad.”

Sighing, Dean rubbed his forehead before saying, “Yeah. I know.”

“What’s going on man?”

Taking a deep breath, Dean answered, “You remember that domestic abuse case we caught last month.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he replied, “The one where the husband shot his wife? How could I forget? She was lucky she survived. But I don’t know why you are worried about it. We got a confession and he’ll do hard time.”

“You know that’s not what is bothering me,” Dean countered. “It’s their kid.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t my fault?! Sam, I nearly killed him.”

“What were you supposed to do? Shots rang out, we could hear the wife screaming, and you went in first. It’s not like you expected the boy to come running out of the bedroom.”

“But I pulled the trigger. I pointed a gun at the kid and fired.”

Sam sighed as he attempted to waylay his brother’s guilt.

“You didn’t have time to assess the situation and realize it was a kid and not the perpetrator. Besides, you missed.”

“Barely,” Dean fretted.

“Dean, I know you. You’re a good cop and you were only doing what you thought was absolutely necessary.”

“I don’t know about that, Sammy,” the elder Winchester brother confessed.

“Listen,” Sam said. “If you’re feeling guilty, why not talk to someone about it?”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“No. I mean someone that can absolve you of your guilt.”

Confused, Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother.

“What? Like a shrink?” he asked.

“Like a priest,” Sam answered.

“I’m not like you,” Dean said, glancing sideways. “I’m not… I’m not exactly a man of faith.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Sam pulled his brother’s attention back to him.

“It wouldn’t hurt to stop by the church and ask Father Novak for some counsel.”

***

Father James Novak was making his way through the rows of pews picking up discarded hymnals and programs and putting them back in their proper place. Usually one of the church volunteers would clean up after mass but tonight the chore fell to him. Not that it bothered him, he savored even the simplest of tasks. It gave him time to reflect on more spiritual matters.

Hearing the sounds of heavy footfalls on the marble tiles, the priest finished arranging the hymnals in the wooden slots before turning to greet the late-night parishioner. He hadn’t expected anyone but, given that the Lord’s labors often came at odd hours of both the day and night, he was always ready to serve.

“Father Novak?”

“Ah, Sheriff Winchester,” the Father replied upon seeing the man who had entered the chapel. “How are you this evening?”

“Oh,” Dean replied with a smirk and a shake of his head, “I’m fine, just fine.”

“If you were fine,” the priest replied knowingly, “you wouldn’t be here so late in the evening. What can I do for you, my son?”

Glancing around, the sheriff appeared uneasy.

“There’s no one here tonight,” Novak said. “So you may speak freely. Or, if it is appropriate, we can make use of the confessional.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had this first chapter written for a long while but I needed some motivation to finish this short story. Consequently, I hope that by posting it, I’ll get the motivation I need.


	2. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff Dean Winchester takes part in the sacrament of confession.

Entering the small enclosed space of the confessional, Dean’s mouth suddenly went dry. It was as if the wooden vestibule surrounding him had sucked all the moisture out of the air. And despite not attending mass or taking advantage of the sacrament of the confessional for several years, the sheriff still knew exactly what was expected of him.

Kneeling on the low cushioned tuffet, Dean faced the carved wooden screen separating him and the priest. When Father Novak pulled back the curtain on his side of the divider, the sheriff instinctually crossed himself.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Dean murmured. “Amen.”

“Amen,” the priest replied. “Bless you, my son.”

When he was younger, Dean and Sam had both been ushered to Mass each Sunday. At the end of the services, their Dad was adamant that they both unburden their souls and go to confession. At the time, the elder of the Winchester boys had begrudged being compelled to take part in what he saw as pointless religious practices.

Now, he found a sense of comfort in the familiarity of the ritual.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…,” Dean paused. He honestly didn’t know the last time he had taken the time to attend mass, let alone gone to confession. After a moment of contemplation, he continued, “… years since my last confession.”

“Tell me your sins.”

“I…” the sheriff gulped, unsure how to proceed, “I don’t know how to put it into words.”

“Are the sins you wish to confess this day,” Father Novak asked, “mortal or venial?”

“Mortal,” Dean replied.

The Father must have sensed the sheriff’s unease as he proceeded to ask a series of pointed questions.

“Have you put anyone or anything above your love of God?”

“Uh… no. I don’t think I have.”

“Have you taken the Lord’s name in vain?”

“Is that an actual sin?”

“It is.”

“Then, yeah. I’ve done that, often.”

“Have you kept the Sabbath day holy, abstaining from all unnecessary activities and dedicating yourself to prayer and worship?”

Shifting uneasily, Dean answered truthfully, knowing full well that lying to a priest was considered a sin as well.

“No, I have not.”

Father Novak continued, asking about other potential sins. Sticking strictly to the types of sins outlined by the Ten Commandments. It wasn’t until they had gone through them all that the priest finally paused in his line of questioning.

“My son,” the priest asked, “are you here because of another sin which we have not discussed?”

“Yes,” Dean breathed, exhaling slowly.

“Have you endangered your own life or the safety of others?” Father Novak inquired.

The question was spoken calmly, without any implication to the gravity and weight of the circumstances if the answer were to be given in the affirmative.

Feeling a lump in his throat, Dean tried to swallow it down before answering.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice quavering and showing more emotion than he would’ve preferred.

“Which is it,” the Father asked, “your life or another’s?”

“Another’s,” Dean answered, trying not to keep his voice steady. “I… I nearly shot a kid.”

“Is that all you wish to confess?”

Realizing the rite was coming to a close, Dean hastily fumbled with the closing phrase.

“For these and all the sins of my life, I am sorry.”

“Jeopardizing the life of an innocent is a serious matter,” the priest said. “There is little wonder why you show such contrition. For your penance, you will say ten Lord’s Prayers and ten Hail Marys.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Through the Ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Go in Peace, my Son, and sin no more.”

Getting awkwardly to his feet, Dean’s knees ached as he made his way out of the confessional. Once back out in the empty chapel, he waited for Father Novak to reappear. After a few minutes, the priest emerged. Taking the purple stole off from around his shoulders, the Father folded it carefully in his hands as he approached Dean.

“So that’s it?” Dean asked. “I tell I nearly killed someone and you tell me to say a couple of prayers.”

“That is how confession works,” the Father replied. “Of course, if you attended mass and came to confession more often, you would be more familiar with the feelings the sacrament of the confessional elicits. Though do not take this as a criticism of your lack of faith, Sheriff Winchester. I am truly grateful that you decided to come here this evening.”

“It just doesn’t feel like enough.”

Dean hadn’t thought what he had said was that significant, though it appeared to give the priest pause.

“Sheriff,” the priest inquired with what seemed to be an unusual amount of trepidation, “are you familiar with the term Mortification of the Flesh?”

“Um…,” Dean said, “no. Why what is it?”

“It is an act of penance; an act of sanctification and humility in which you submit the very flesh of your body before the Lord. Something with more weight than petitioning for forgiveness through prayer.”

“What … what would that entail?” Dean couldn’t help but ask.

The truth was that now that he was out of the confessional, he still felt as though he required something more redemptive. If the priest could provide him with something more substantial, he’d take it. He needed to if he was going to get out from underneath the weight that was hanging over him for more than a month. He needed to be able to concentrate on work and not his guilt. He had a job to do.

“Follow me,” Father Novak replied.

Dean watched as the priest made his way past him, down the aisle of the chapel, the black robes of his cassock swaying around him. Taking a moment to kneel in front of the altar and crucifix, Father Novak crossed himself before heading to the private chambers in the back of the sanctuary.

There was something about the priest’s demeanor that left him trepidatious and wary. Still, Dean was an officer of the law. He wasn’t about to let a little bit of uneasiness get in his way. His stride resolute, Dean followed.

Back behind the main assembly room, he walked down a dark corridor before going through the only open door. There, he found the priest kneeling before a small shrine. The room was bare other than the small altar in the corner and a wooden chair set off to the side.

“This,” Father Novak said, his voice muffled as he was still facing away from the sheriff, “is my own private chamber. Here, I commune directly with Lord. After all, I am His servant. I invite you here that I might facilitate your penitence. I am merely an intermediary.”

“And by penance, you mean this mortification of the flesh?”

“Yes. It is not an act of contrition that one takes on lightly. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Father,” Dean muttered.

“Sheriff Winchester,” the priest explained, “here, in this chamber, I go by another name, my true name. The name bestowed upon me by the Lord upon my ordination. It is a secret name that can only be uttered during the most sacred of ceremonies. I tell it to you now so that you might understand the full extent and seriousness of this act we are both about to partake.”

Nodding solemnly, Dean took a step forward, shutting the door behind him.

“My name,” the priest said, “is Castiel.”

It was if all the air was gone out of the room and Dean was overcome with a sense of sanctity and awe.

“Now,” standing up and turning around, Castiel ordered, “we should start. Take off your belt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I feel a little guilty writing this.... I did my best to research confessions in order to make this scene feel authentic. Yes, this story is taboo but I respect the seriousness of others' religious beliefs and I hope that is reflected in my writing.


	3. The Mortification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel administers the sacrament known as a mortification of the flesh.

Had it not been for the strange and yet overwhelming sense of fervor in the still air surrounding the pair of them, Dean would have laughed. Instead, his attention remained trained on the priest in front of him. It was as though Father Novak had changed from being a simple man of the cloth to something altogether different. Now, it was if an ethereal power was radiating from the Lord’s servant and it left him transfixed.

“Dean,” Castiel ordered again as he moved the chair from the wall and placed it at a perpendicular angle to the altar, “remove your belt. I believe you will just find it too cumbersome to keep on wearing as we proceed with the ordinance.”

Distracted by the grating sounds the chair was making the priest dragged it across the floor, it took Dean a minute to discern what was being said to him.

Castiel was right, of course, his multi-functional belt was bulky. Sturdy leather carried the day-to-day equipment he found necessary to perform his duties. Unbuckling it, Dean carefully removed such items as his gun, handcuffs, radio, and utility knife before crouching to gently set the items on the floor. Pulling the now unencumbered belt from the loops of his trousers, he went to place it on the floor as well but the priest stopped him.

Holding out his hand, Castiel said, “You can bring that over to me.”

Dean gulped. What was this mortification of the flesh going to entail?

When the sheriff did not move, Castiel strode over to him and simply grasped Dean by the forearm. Though his touch was firm, it was not demanding. Still, Dean could not, for any reason, find it within himself to not heed the priest’s orders. Handing over the belt, he allowed himself to be drawn further into the room.

Castiel paused at the chair, leaving Dean standing still as he took a seat. Tucking his robes underneath him, the priest placed the leather strap on his knees before then straightening his collar.

“You will remain facing the altar during this process,” the priest explained. “It is imperative that you keep your focus on submitting yourself before the Lord as penance for your sins. I do not want you to focus on me.”

Nodding, Dean kept his eyes on the shrine and the crucifix it held.

“In modern times, mortification of the flesh is most commonly practiced in the forms of fasting or kneeling for extended periods of the time. Though, in previous centuries, men would engage in self-flagellation. Physical pain cleanses the soul of the toxicity of sin.”

“So you’re going to hit me with my own belt, is that it?” Dean wondered aloud. The idea should’ve sounded ridiculous but somehow it did not. It was as if the priest had this power over him that he could not shake.

“I am going to help you humble yourself before the Lord,” Castiel explained. “It is only because of the seriousness of the sin that I am willing to go to these lengths. You said it yourself, prayers alone are not enough.”

“What do you want me to do?” Dean asked.

“It is not about what I want you to do. It’s about you being willing to go to the lengths necessary to prove your humility and contrition.”

“What does that entail?”

“Doing what I tell you to do, no matter what I may ask of you. Do you think that is something you are capable of doing?”

“Yes,” Dean breathed, his heart suddenly racing.

“Then kneel.”

Sinking slowly to his knees, the sheriff did as he was told. His eyes remained unblinking as he focused on the alter and not at his heart hammering in his chest. The cold stone floor was hard and uncomfortable but Dean ignored the minor irritation. He had a feeling that he was going to be more than just uncomfortable if he continued to along his current trajectory.

Nervously, Dean chewed on his lower lip.

“Now,” Castiel commanded, his gravel tones making him sound almost entirely different from the man the sheriff knew as the local priest, “undo the fastening of your pants and lower them to mid-thigh.”

“What?” Dean asked, baffled by the request.

This was not what he had expected. He was prepared to submit himself and to be lashed across the palms of his hands or his back. However, getting his ass beat was a very different beast and held a very different connotation.

“You heard me, Sheriff Winchester,” the priest all but growled.

Something in Father Novak’s tone sent a shiver down Dean’s spine and he found himself hastily obeying the man.

“Boxers too,” Castiel remarked, casting a glance down at the young sheriff from the corner of his eye.

“You can’t be serious,” Dean shot back, his complying disposition fading.

“It’s called mortification of the flesh,” Castiel replied, his features resolute. “What did you expect? We are taught that if a man seeks forgiveness, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. Isn’t that what you wish, to be forgiven. It comes with a price: humility and the willingness to bare yourself before the Lord.”

“You forgot to put the emphasis on the word _bare_ ,” the sheriff muttered.

“My son, if you are not willing, then just say the word. I am merely a vessel for the Lord’s work, I shall not force this penance upon you.”

Begrudgingly, Dean shifted on his knees and pulled down at the thin cotton fabric of his boxers. Exposing both his buttocks and genitals to the cool still air of the room, he could feel himself clench and his balls retract at the sensation. Embarrassed, he clasped his hands in front of himself to obscure his nether region from view.

“And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked?” Castiel murmured, quoting scripture as casually as one would remark on the time of day or the weather. Letting his arms fall to his sides, the belt still gripped in his right hand, the priest continued, “My son, I think you know what to do next.”

“I’m not laying across your lap,” Dean said through tightening lips.

“Would you like me to stand up then?” Castiel asked, his tone flat. “If you want to bend over the chair on your own, I can stand behind you. I would then have a better range of motion and the strikes I make will be more painful. It is up to you.”

As repulsed as he was by the idea of being bent over the priest’s knees like some disobedient child, Dean was also not keen on being on the receiving end of a grown man’s brute strength facilitated at the end of a leather belt.

“ _Fuck it_ ,” he conceded silently to himself and he awkwardly rose up off his knees.

While still in a crouched position, Dean extended a hand to grip the edge of the wooden seat to steady himself. Then, trying to avoid as much direct contact with the priest as possible, the sheriff drew himself to a prone position above Castiel’s lap.

He had intended on extending his other hand to the floor before lowering himself slowly down to a resting position. However, Dean quickly found that he was too top-heavy and he lost his grip and all but fell into the priest’s lap. His hips digging into the other man’s thigh and the bare skin of his penis brushing against the priest’s cassock, Dean dearly wished he could hide under a rock as it would be far better than experiencing the excruciating embarrassment flooding his system.

“ _To Hell with this_ ,” Dean thought, trying to regain his equilibrium and a mere second away from getting up and leaving.

“Dean.”

The somber and sobering timber of Castiel’s voice gave the sheriff pause.

“You are going to want to keep your legs together,” the priest continued as he rested the cool leather strap of the belt against the back of Dean’s bare thighs. “You wouldn’t want me to hit your testicles on accident.”

“ _Son of a bitch_ ,” Dean thought, his mouth going dry, “ _he’s actually going to go through with this.”_

“Do you remember how many prayers I directed you to say for your penance?”

“Uh…” Dean hesitated, his mind whirling, “ten Lord’s Prayers and … um… ten Hail Marys.”

“That is correct,” the priest replied. “And for every prayer, I directed you to say, I will place a strike across your bare skin. In total, it will be twenty strikes. If you find you are unable to complete your penance, you only need to speak up. But know that I am here and, as Lord’s vessel, I am not only a source of His justice but also of His compassion. I will not push you farther than you are willing to go.”

“Let’s just get this over with, can we?” Dean grumbled. “I can handle whatever you dish out.”

“Very well,” the priest replied, “keep your eyes on the alter and focus on the sin for which you are paying this penance.”

Doing as he was directed, Dean lifted his eyes and fixed them on the cross straight ahead of him in the corner of the room. And as he contemplated his sin, he couldn’t help but brace himself for what he knew would come next.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” Castiel prayed.

As the priest began his invocation, Dean felt the folded leather strap lift from the back of his thighs.

“-accept this sinner’s penance.”

The searing heat and pain the lash elicited were beyond what Dean had expected. Pain, such pain he could not recall having felt before this day. It was such that it seemed to him that he had not heard the whistle of the belt zipping through the air until after sting had reached his senses.

Seemingly unconcerned with the sheriff’s discomforted, the priest carried on, “This sinner repents of his sins-“

Again the whistling of leather cutting through still air could be heard and again Dean felt the same pain. The length of the belt was such that a single stripe was enough to cover both cheeks.

“- and is sorry with all of his heart.”

“ _Two down, only eighteen to go_ ,” Dean reassured himself before quickly realizing that was merely one-tenth of what he still had to endure.

“Forgive him, Father, for choosing to do wrong-“

The third lash came down in the same place as the first two and Dean was already starting to wish that the priest would change his approach and spread out the pain instead of focussing it on one area.

“-and failing to do good.”

A fourth strike came down and Dean let out an involuntary gasp. This must have given the priest pause as he momentarily ceased his prayer and administrations. However, as Dean did not move or give any sign that he was not intent on discontinuing his penance, the priest once again resumed.

“He has sinned against Thee -“

As the fifth lash drew itself across his bare ass cheeks, Dean bit his lip to stop another cry from escaping.

“- by endangering the life of an innocent.”

At least with the sixth stripe, the sheriff got his wish as the belt landed lower on his buttocks.

“ _Oh_ ,” Dean thought, “ _that’s going to leave a mark._ ”

“With the help of thy servant,-“ Castiel’s tone remained steady as he continued his prayer. The methodical cadence of his voice resulted in pauses between the lashes but Dean did not know whether or not this was a good thing. As soon as the pain from one strike would start to subside, another would be there to replace it.

“- this sinner does his penance -“

The snap of leather against flesh was so loud the seventh time but it did nothing to distract the sheriff from the pain.

“- and intends to sin no more.”

As the eighth lash bought tears to his eyes, Dean blinked to rid himself of them. He did not want to move his hands from their precarious position on the floor to wipe at his face.

“This sinner -“

Castiel continued to pray but Dean no longer heard to words the man spoke. The subsequent ninth and tenth strokes were almost more than he could bear. The sweat building up along his skin had made his hands slick and they began to slip on the stone floor.

With every succeeding line of supplication, all Dean could focus on was the number of lashes he had endured and the number he had left.

“ _Thirteen down, seven to go_.”

“Give unto him, oh Lord-“

On the fourteenth strike, Dean’s hands slipped and Castiel had to grasp the sheriff’s body to keep him from falling off his lap and onto the floor.

Not speaking a single word, Castiel halted his administration of the mortification. With the priest’s striking hand hanging off to the side, Dean could sense the lax leather held loosely in the man’s grip as it brushed against his bare thigh.

Just thinking about the leather strap, Dean felt an irrational dread wash over him. Consequently, he instinctually turned to the only source of comfort at hand and that was the priest holding onto him. Subconsciously, the sheriff found himself pressing against the soft warmth of Castiel’s body.

Running the edge of his thumb against the sheriff’s ribs, Castiel asked, “Shall I continue?”

“Just…” Dean stuttered, the blood pounding in his ears as he lay practically inverted on the other man’s lap, “finish up already.”

The priest raised his right hand and the folded leather strap with it.

“Give unto him, oh Lord,” Castiel began to pray once more.

Dean sobbed as the belt hit his sore ass, his once hushed cries now clearly audible.

Tears ran down his face as he thought, “ _Fifteen down, five to go_.”

“- Thy guidance -”

The sixteenth lashing came in quick succession as it was apparent the priest was no longer taking his time between strikes.

“- and lead him not into temptation.”

On the seventeenth stripe, Dean tried to remain steady as he told himself, “ _… Three to go.”_

Castiel continued, “In Thy name, I beseech Thee-“

Eighteen lashings, that was all it took and Dean found himself to be a blubbering mess. Each strike more painful than the last, the sheriff now understood the graphic history of such a cruel practice. He understood why people had to be tied to whipping posts and why so many had died from their injuries.

And yet, he still had two more to go.

“- for Thy forgiveness on behalf of this sinner.“

The belt came down once more and Dean felt a sob tear from his chest as his thighs quaked, the tensed muscles being pushed to their limits.

“May God have mercy.”

The twentieth and last lashing of the belt fell across his skin and Dean felt all his strength fail him as his arms and legs would no longer heed his wishes. He went limp in priest’s tentative grasp.

***

“Amen,” Castiel all but whispered, dropping the belt in his hand and holding carefully onto the man in his lap.

His task complete, Father James Novak felt relieved that the ordinance of mortification was now over. Now he could return to being himself, the kind and unassuming local priest and no longer a vessel of the Lord’s justice.

Shifting uncomfortably under the sheriff’s weight, he looked at the markings left on the man’s bare flesh. His entire rear was bright red, deep purples blossomed under the surface of the skin, and defined linear welts and markings crisscrossed Dean’s buttocks. It was not a pretty sight and the Father’s stomach churned knowing it had been at his hand.

“My son,” Father Novak said, gently, placing a calming hand on Dean’s back, “can I help you up?”

Dean nodded, running a shirt sleeve across his face and under his nose.

Awkwardly, Dean got to his feet, holding on to first the priest’s knee and then his shoulder. Never able to quite stand up straight, the sheriff was still hunched over and trying to pull up his pants as the Father stood from his chair. Momentarily deprived of something to hold onto, Dean nearly toppled over.

“I’ve got you,” the Father remarked, quickly drawing Dean’s arm over his shoulder.

Reaching down, Father Novak then helped the sheriff pull his pants back up over his hips. Courteously, the priest pretended to ignore the hiss Dean made as the fabric was drawn up and over his backside.

Once dressed, Dean leaned on the Father. While still unsteady on his feet, it was obvious that the man was trying his best to recuperate to the point he could walk out of the room unassisted.

James did not know how long he stood there. It could have been hours or minutes but time seemed to have lost its meaning. However, Dean eventually gripped the priest’s shoulder tightly before lifting his hand to give Novak a wordless pat.

Under his own steam, the sheriff now turned to leave. Taking a few tentative steps until he reached the door, Dean paused when he reached it.

“You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?” he asked.

“The sacred seal of the confessional prohibits me from sharing anything that took place this night with anyone or for any reason,” Father Novak explained, stepping forward and gathering the items, that Dean had taken off his belt earlier, up off of the floor. “But, Sheriff Winchester, I would offer you this word of comfort. You have paid your penance and any burden of sin you felt before is now lifted. As the pain dissipates from your body, it cleanses your soul.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, turning slightly so he could mean the priest’s gaze.

“It means go in peace, my son,” Father Novak answered, taking a few steps forward and placing belt, gun, handcuffs, and more into the sheriff’s arms. “And sin no more.”

***

Stumbling outside of the church, Dean made a bee-line to his car. Glad that the darkness of night meant that no one would probably notice him, he didn’t put any effort in keeping a straight face or trying to wipe off the tear tracks. Pulling open the front drivers-side door, he dumped his possessions into the footwell before clambering inside the black Chevy Impala.

Laying on his side, Dean could not even contemplate sitting up long enough to drive home. Instead, he drew his knees up and closed the door. Letting himself be consumed by raw emotion, the pain of his guilt and the pain of his mortification flowed together, becoming indistinguishable from one another.

Crying softly for a while, Dean lay on the cool leather cushions. With every breath, he felt calmer until only an odd whimper escaped him here or there. Finally, after probably an hour, numbness overcame him and it was though part of his brain could no longer access the pain.

Was this the cleansing effect Father Novak had talked about? Was this what it felt like to be forgiven?

Taking a deep breath, Dean steadied his nerves and accepted the discomfort that awaited him for the duration of his ride home. True and meaningful forgiveness and absolution, as it turns out, were not easily obtained.


	4. The Liturgy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Novak prepares for and delivers Sunday Mass.

Saturday night fell softly over the small Kansas town and, while many spent the weekend night relaxing in one way or another, one particular resident sat at his desk, staring into oblivion. A few pieces of paper and a pencil lay next to a Bible, however, the paper was blank and the scriptures were left unopened. In all seriousness, Father James Novak should have been preparing his sermon for Sunday Mass. Instead, he could not pull his mind from events that transpired earlier in the week with one particular partitioner.

Had he gone too far with the Sheriff?

It certainly felt like he had crossed a line.

On the other hand, Dean Winchester had made no effort to stop him during the mortification. Additionally, he had most certainly not come to arrest the priest for assault, which was well within the Sheriff’s authority to do.

So, perhaps, facilitating Dean’s act of contrition had not been a mistake.

Sighing deeply, Father Novak placed his hands on the table and pushed himself to a standing position. There would be no sermon-writing taking place this evening. Come the morning, he’d just have to phone it in.

With a downward tilt of his head, the priest crossed himself and turned to leave the room. The sabbath day would be here soon enough and he reasoned it was only logical to, at the very least, try and get a good night’s rest.

***

How he had missed noticing him earlier, Father Novak did not know. Sam Winchester was the sort of man that stood out in a crowd. Consequently, he typically noticed when the younger Winchester was there. It was not unusual for Sam and his girlfriend, Eileen, to sit in one of the back rows. During many a previous mass, the priest had grown accustomed to seeing them signing discreetly to one another from his position behind the pulpit. He found the pair rather endearing.

However, here he was, about to place the Eucharist on Eileen’s tongue, and just now seeing Sam. Somehow, he had completely missed noticing the man not only through the invocation, hymns, and recited prayers but through the entire liturgy as well. Apparently, the deputy was not only in attendance this Sunday but he was also standing just behind his girlfriend and giving a perfunctory bow.

It was only by repetitive instinct alone that the priest remembered to say, “The body of Christ.”

“Amen,” Eileen replied, before sticking out her tongue to receive the sacrament.

As the younger Winchester approached, the Father felt a bit jittery.

“The body of Christ,” he said, extending the communion wafer.

“Amen.”

And just like that, the strange bout of jitteriness Novak had felt was gone as the priest continued to administer to each of the communicants. However, that feeling returned less than an hour later as he stood outside the doors of the chapel, thanking each church member for attending Mass that morning.

“Father Novak,” Sam Winchester said, taking the priest’s hand and giving it a firm shake with one hand, the other hand preoccupied with holding his girlfriend’s.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Sam continued, “but I am truly impressed.”

“Did what?” the father asked blankly, praying that Sam did not mention aloud what had been done to his brother.

“Convinced Dean to come to church, of course,” Sam replied with a laugh before stepping to the side.

Right behind his younger brother and Eileen was none other than the Sheriff of their small town.

“Father Novak,” Dean said solemnly, extending his hand to for a handshake.

“Sheriff Winchester,” the priest nearly croaked, “forgive me. I didn’t see you earlier.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” the Sheriff replied before lingering on a meaningful pause.“I stood in the back. I figured I would probably be a bit sore if I sat on a wooden pew for the entire service. Still, I enjoyed your sermon. I thought the topic was rather inspired.”

The priest gulped.

“Dean,” Sam urged, tugging at his brother’s arm, “let’s get going. People are waiting behind us.”

“Of course, be right there,” Dean said to his brother before leaving a parting remark. “Until next time, Father.”

Left speechless, the priest watched the trio meander down the church steps and off towards the parking lot.

What had the elder Winchester brother meant when he said ‘until next time’? Did he mean until next Sunday? Or was the man referencing another session with Castiel in the small private chapel?

Only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed, please leave considering leaving me a comment below.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Penitent - Castiel Fan Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24149137) by [Informative_Dandy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Informative_Dandy/pseuds/Informative_Dandy)




End file.
